


A Lord to Love

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, First Kiss, First Time, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Pining John, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is only nineteen when his father dies, and he becomes the new Lord Holmes. Lord Watson is his neighbor, and together, they have land boundary issues to work out. Only, Lord Watson is interested in a lot more than land. In fact, he's about to make an offer, and an admission, that will change everything.





	1. Chapter 1

This is not the way I ever hoped things would happen between us, but it’s now the only way. I stand in the grand meeting room of the Holmes estate and realize he’s even more beautiful than I remember. Unfortunate that his shoulders stoop under the weight of his father’s recent death—and the weight of being named the new Lord Holmes, no matter his older brother’s ire.

Unfortunate, too, that I, Lord John Watson, am the reason for what promises to be a very heated legal debate—and that Sherlock Holmes is only nineteen—but I made up my mind as soon as I walked in an hour ago, as soon as I saw him again.

I will go through with this, no matter what Lestrade says.

I want to make the young Lord Holmes’s eyes brighten. I want to relax those pursed lips and put a stop to the tense, agitated way he moves. He fits perfectly into this setting, though, surrounded by luxury: high ceilings, dark wooden furniture, and wide windows that showcase the lush greenery of Holmes land. He’s a work of art himself, what with the black hair, silver eyes, and pale skin. 

I haven’t seen him in three years, despite the Holmes family being my neighbors. The dislike I held for Sherlock’s father kept us apart. Now, the old man is dead, and he left everything—title included—to his youngest, this nineteen-year-old boy, barely a man, in an expensive suit. I try not to stare at his pale, delicate hands.

_Musician’s hands._

“Looks nothing like his old man,” Lestrade says at my side.

“No, he looks like his mother.”

Lestrade sips coffee. “Did you know her?”

“I met her once. A few years ago.” I will never forget that fateful Christmas Eve.

“Before everything went tits up with Lord Holmes, the elder?” He snickers.

I glance at my legal advisor with his graying hair and shrewd, dark eyes. I’ve always trusted this man with everything, but in these proceedings, he’ll have to trust me.

I clear my throat and try to stop looking at Sherlock. “I won’t miss the man.”

“No, neither me. But it looks like his son will.” He gestures toward the object of my obsession.

The weight of grief does seem to rest like a visible fog in the room, and Sherlock is its source. I’ve heard he was close to his father—much closer than the elder son, Mycroft, if inheritance is any indication. Mycroft received nothing but a measly monthly allowance in the old man’s will. Sherlock, practically a child, has gained everything.

But not the family graveyard. That is why I’m really here, isn’t it?

Due to a boundary debate that’s been raging for the past two years, the dead Lord Holmes and I had been at war. Thanks to some hundred-year-old mistake, discovered by Lestrade, I own much more land than I once realized, including the Holmes family cemetery and all the bodies within—including Sherlock’s mother, who died not long after that auspicious Christmas party three years ago.

Now, young Sherlock wants the land back. He wants to bury his father, visit his mother. I’ve kept the entire family away with the help of sentries who wander the edges of my land. I’d once laid out financial terms that would return the land to the Holmes family, but Sherlock’s father refused.

Sherlock will do no such thing. He’s trying to seem strong, stand tall, but I can see he is desperate to put flowers on his mother’s grave. He’s desperate to lay his dear father to rest. He will agree to my terms.

I didn’t want it to happen like this, but maybe this has been my only option all along.

***

Seated down both lengths of a long, wooden table, all members of the Holmes and Watson parties spend the afternoon debating the little details of the legal agreement that will put an end to the feud that has raged.

I let Lestrade do most of the talking, mostly to Mycroft, who is the spitting image of his dead father. Mycroft has that same long nose, receding hairline, and somber expression. It’s hard to see any resemblance between he and Sherlock—Sherlock, who wanders the edges of the debate, focused and listening. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The intelligence obvious in his gaze misses nothing, understands everything.

I heard he spent the last year at Cambridge, studying chemistry. Well, no longer.

I do catch the young Lord Holmes looking at me every so often. He looks to me and looks away. Each time he does it, I sit up a bit straighter.

As the day runs late, we agree to adjourn until the morning, although I, along with my legal counsel, are invited to stay for dinner. I accept, if only for an excuse to spend more time in the same space as Sherlock, but he doesn’t join us. 

Mycroft makes stuttering apologies: “My brother is still overtaken by grief.” His smile is forced. He should be the new Lord Holmes, and he knows it. Everyone knows it. The pronouncement of Sherlock’s title was a shockwave felt down the valley and all the way into London.

Lestrade, a bit drunk on brandy, reminisces about law school with a Holmes representative, so I sneak away. I try to picture the room where I first saw Sherlock, but all I can remember is him—younger, smaller, but just as imposing.

I follow the sound of a crackling fire and find a cozy study. Someone sits in a tall chair facing the flames, one hand on the arm. I would recognize Sherlock’s hands anywhere. I don’t think twice before walking inside and sitting in the chair opposite.

He looks up when I enter but doesn’t move to welcome me. “Oh. Lord Watson.”    

“Lord Holmes.” I cross one leg over the other.

“Apologies for not joining you at dinner.” His voice is much deeper than I expected. A fair descriptor of the young man would be “pretty,” and yet, his voice rumbles like an ocean wave.

“No need to apologize. I wouldn’t want a group of strangers in my home right now, either.” 

He sips what looks to be scotch. “Did you hate my father?”

I fold my hands in my lap. “No. We just didn’t agree on things. I’m sorry for your loss. You’re very young for all this responsibility.”

He chuckles, mirthless. “And you’re very old to be petty about a graveyard.”

I laugh. “Fair enough. You don’t seem nineteen.”

He finishes his glass and holds the tumbler, empty, between his long fingers. “How do I seem?” 

“Older. A force to be reckoned with.”

“I grew up quite quickly when I lost my mother.”

I want to reach for him but do not. “My mother also died when I was young.” 

He sighs. “Do you miss her? Lord Watson.”

“You can call me John.”

“No, I don’t think so.” He hasn’t looked at me since I sat down. “I didn’t expect my father would …” He licks his bottom lip. His forehead wrinkles. “I thought I would have him for much longer. Now, he is gone, and …”

I wonder how much he’s had to drink.

“How do you keep going, Lord Watson? What fills your days?”

I want to tell him the truth. I want to say, _Thoughts of you._ I have never, ever forgotten he lives next door, not since Christmas, three years past. The only reason I ever went to society parties and listened to the inane babble was to listen for his name. I used to have nightmares that I would eventually hear him betrothed to some stodgy French duke and I would be too late. Instead, here we sit, alone together, and he looks at me now, waiting.

I lean forward in my seat. “The pain will get better.”

He glares at me. “Why are you unmarried at your age?”

The force of his suspicion, his ire, makes me wonder if he’s psychic. I pull away from the light of the fire and disappear into the shadows of my chair. “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, shakes his head. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I …” He stands, and so do I. “I should retire for the night. I am not good company.”

Again, the longing to touch him wars within my very soul. Surely, a hand on his arm wouldn’t be too much? I run my palm from his shoulder to his elbow. “You’re fine company, Lord Holmes.”

He studies me. Despite the alcohol in his system, I feel he sees right through me. I let him see. I watch him and wait, but he doesn’t back away or start shouting, so I assume he doesn’t notice my true intentions. He nods and says, “Until tomorrow, Lord Watson.”

I return the nod and watch him walk away. Despite the alcohol, he is elegance and grace as he crosses the room and disappears down the hall. I know he plays music—God, do I ever know—but I wonder if he dances, too.

On the way back to my estate, I tell Lestrade about the addendum I need him to add to the Watson-Holmes legal agreement. At first, he just laughs. When he realizes I’m serious, he starts shouting. He calls me “bloody insane,” but I hear none of it. I made up my mind as soon as I saw Sherlock, fully grown.

I have waited long enough.

*** 

The next morning, we are back in the grand meeting room with its wide windows and suffocating grief. Mycroft sits at the head of the table as if he has any right to be there. Sherlock, in a bespoke black suit, stares outside but listens. I can tell he hears everything in the way his brows occasionally lift or lower, in the way he tilts his head as though working out a melody.

Lestrade clears his throat and tosses me one final simmering glare before he sighs. This is it. Bombs are about to blow. “There is one slight change to the final agreement, at Lord Watson’s request.” My friend tugs at his shirt collar. “If you’ll look to the bottom of page eight …”

Papers flutter like bird wings. Then, there is silence as the rich men around the table read. Mycroft apparently finishes first, because he says, calmly, “Absolutely not.”

I gift him a close-lipped smile. “It’s not your place to say.”

“What is it?” Sherlock now stands across the table from me with his hands in his pockets. He asks the room, but those discerning eyes of his look only at me.

“It is utter madness,” Mycroft shouts. The calm veneer cracks. Other members of the Holmes party nod in agreement.

Madness? No. I want to tell them to look at him. Look at Sherlock Holmes. Look at how brilliant and beautiful he is and tell me it’s madness.

Instead, I sit in silence, as does Lestrade.

Sherlock asks, “What does it say?” Somehow, I feel he already knows. 

Mycroft holds the contract up in the air as if he might throw it. “It’s bloody preposterous! Our family land in exchange for your hand in marriage!”

And there it is: the most unromantic marriage proposal in history, and I am responsible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are gonna come fast, so this story should be finished by Friday! I start work on a screenplay next week, but I needed a fluffy break first, so Johnlock happened (as it so often does). Enjoy chapter 2, and thanks for all the fabulous comments! You're the best xoxo

Sherlock stares at me. His eyes widen a bit. His lips part on a breath, but he doesn’t stomp like a child or call me a filthy old man. There are murmurings up and down the table. I’m sure Mycroft is the shade of a ripe tomato, but I see nothing but the young Lord Holmes and the utter lack of emotion on his face. 

It’s not as though men of our station don’t marry each other. It happens with some regularity, in fact, and heirs are adopted, chosen, or—in special cases—a man takes a wife, as well. I have no interest in a wife. For three years, there has been no one but this beguiling creature before me.

Perhaps the general shock comes particularly due to our age difference … or the fact that we are complete strangers, but neither facts worry me. I will never bore of Sherlock, never. Even if the man were mute, I could spend hours staring at him.

But now, he stares at _me_ and looks to be the calmest person in the room. “Out,” he says suddenly, in that powerful voice of his. “Everyone out. Lord Watson, you will remain.”

“Brother mine—” Mycroft starts. 

“I said out,” he shouts.

Men move with haste and I wonder if the young lad has a fiery side I don’t know about—yet. I hope to know everything about Sherlock soon. Mycroft mutters something to him as he walks by, but Lord Holmes does not respond.

Far away, the heavy wooden doors close, and we are alone. Sherlock returns to his place near the window. The gray light of England highlights his flawless skin. “Why?” he asks.

I round the table and walk toward him, stopping within an arm’s distance. “Why what?”

“Why would you want to marry me?” He turns on his heels and glares. He’s a full six inches taller than me, but he’s too young to make me feel small. “It’s not for money. You have no need for money.”

I smile. “How do you know?”

“I spied on your accountant.” 

I chuckle. “Of course you did.” Might as well tell him the truth. The brilliant boy is bound to figure it out anyway. I point at one of his hands, curled into a fist by his side. “May I?” I reach forward. When I touch his hand, his fingers relax but his shoulders tense. I cup his hand in mine and admire its elegance. “We’ve met before, although I doubt you remember.”

I hear him swallow. “When?”

“Oh, you were sixteen, I think. The Christmas before Lady Holmes passed, your father threw a party. He made you play violin. At first, I thought you hated to play, but then, I realized you were just shy.”

His fingers move on my palm, just lightly. “I don’t like playing for other people. I do it to help me think.”

“Well, you played beautifully.” When I move a little closer, he doesn’t pull back. “It was your hands that first did it. You have exquisite hands.” I lean down and kiss one of his knuckles. When I look up at him, he seems utterly lost as though I am a difficult chemical formula at Cambridge. “I couldn’t stop looking at you that night.” I smile at my own desperation. “I still can’t.”

“But you haven’t seen me in three years.” 

“I saw you here.” I point to my head. “It was hard to imagine you’d get even better looking.”

“No.” He shakes his head and pulls his hand away. “I would be a terrible husband.”

“I can’t believe that’s true.”

He talks to the window as though scared to look at me. “I daily mourn my parents. I ache with their loss. I don’t want to run a household, let alone an entire estate. I …” He keeps shaking his head. “I am a chemistry student. I find comfort in science and order, not … this.” He gestures to me. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing.”

“Sherlock—”

“I did _not_ give you permission to call me that.”

“All right.” I hold my hands up in front of me. If he were a cat, his back would be arched, nails out.

“I know that I am pleasant to look at, but I have gone to great lengths to deter advances. Why should I allow you near? What right do you have to me?”

“None.”

He spins on me. His eyes burn now, on fire. “And yet you would expect me to marry you?”

“Not expect. Hope.” I don’t know what else to do, so I go down on one knee in front of him. “I have thought of no one but you for three years. I have been haunted by the fear of you marrying someone else. You asked last night why I have not married. Frankly, no one caught my attention the way you did, playing that violin. And you still hold it. I would watch you read a newspaper and be entertained." 

Thank God, he laughs a little at that, but I can see his eyes are red. He turns away from me and lets out a shaky breath. He’s only growing more agitated, and I think I’m seeing something strange and precious. From what I’ve observed, Lord Holmes does not seem like a young man comfortable with emotions.

I stand and lightly take hold of his arms. I force him to face me. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He barks out a chuckle like the mirthless one from last night.

“All right, look at this from a business perspective. We both have more money than we know what to do with.”

He sighs at this, nods, although he still averts his gaze.

“Marriage would pool our funds. We could do some good in the local village and even in London. I’ve always wanted to open a hospital for the destitute, and you could continue your education.”

Finally, his silver eyes land on me, and although red around the edges, I see they’re not really silver at all but pools of ever-changing watercolor in vivid blue, green, and gold. “You would let me go back to school?”

I squeeze his arms and smile up at him. “You’re an adult. You are free to do as you choose.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. Finally, a tear falls and lands off the edge of his cheekbone before tumbling down the side of his face. “Why should I trust you?”

“Look.” I don’t want to let him go, but I do. I turn back to the table and reach for the papers near Mycroft’s abandoned chair. I tear the legal documents, and of course, there are copies, but I hope this is symbol enough to satisfy the object of my unyielding affection. “You can have your land and the graveyard back. I don’t care about any of it. Frankly, I spent years fighting your father simply because he was being an ass. The only reason I’ve continued the ridiculous debate was to get close to you. And here I am.” I reach for his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. “Close to you.”

“John, the land you would so swiftly throw away is quite valuable. There is a Holmes family legend that Aunt Edna actually buried her jewels with—what?”

“You called me John.”

His cheeks turn red. “Oh, well—”

I honestly can’t help myself. I lean up on my toes and kiss him once quickly, although he immediately ducks his head. If I thought he was blushing a moment ago, he now practically glows with it, doing his best to hide behind thick, black curls.

“Lord Holmes, have you never been kissed before?”

“No, I’ve never. I mean to say. Romantic entanglements, they …” Watching him stumble over words is more attractive than I would have guessed. “You don’t want me, John. I have nothing to offer you.”

I tilt his face up with my fingers beneath his chin. “I want you. Only you.”

“I won’t be good at marriage.”

“You don't know that.”

“Well, I’ve certainly never been good at relationships before.”

“It’s all right, love.” I use the endearment accidentally, but it makes Sherlock laugh.

“ _Love_? You don’t even know me.” 

I take his face in my hands, and he allows it. “I want to know everything about you, so tomorrow, we will bury your father, put flowers on your mother’s grave, and … you’ll marry me.”

He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “I don’t understand you. I don’t like that I don’t understand you.”

I admire the angular planes of his face. “You will with time.”

“Will you give me until end of day tomorrow to decide? I have a funeral to arrange.” He leans back, away from me, and my hands fall to my sides.

“I can make you happy, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t say you could call me that.” He sniffs. “But you can call me that.” He folds his hands behind him and looks down at his shining shoes. “Would you please be here in the morning?" 

“Yes, of course, love.”

He doesn’t comment on the pet name this time. He just turns and leaves the room.

Immediately, every single legal advisor and relative comes pouring back inside, shouting. I’m left to explain all we discussed, although I leave out everything about “love” and the way his lips felt against mine: soft, warm, and tasting of honey.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s freezing on this windy hill at the edge of my property. Well, Sherlock’s property now. The young Lord Holmes wears a long, black coat over his black suit. His black hair blows in the wind. He closely resembles a very tall raven, and all I want to do is wrap him in my arms and keep him warm—especially when he removes his leather gloves.

Over half the village is here for the funeral, but I don’t think it’s out of respect for Sherlock’s father. I assume news traveled fast of my proposal. They want to see what will happen as much as I do. I am a betting man, and I’m confident my beloved will give me his hand in marriage. There were little moments yesterday, when we were alone—the way he let me get close, touch him, comfort him—that makes me believe he feels affection for me. I pray I am not wrong. I can’t imagine I’ll ever feel this immediate draw to anyone else.

And no one will ever be as breathtaking as the man who now stands over his parents’ graves and begins to play.

He was already a talented violinist at the age of sixteen. He’s a master now. I would know. I used to attend the symphony in London. I’ve watched all variety of musicians, but Sherlock surpasses them all. I watch his pale fingers dance over strings as he plays a somber melody I do not recognize. Perhaps one of his own creation? I hope one day he’ll write something for me.

As the song comes to a close, he collapses down to his knees. There’s a quiet outpouring of concerned cries, but I reach him first. I kneel at his side and put my arm around his shoulders, and it’s as if he expected me there. He leans his forehead against the side of my neck and cradles his violin against his chest.

“I only ever used to play for my mother,” he whispers. “She taught me, you know.”

“And she heard you.” I kiss his forehead and am again relieved to find he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans his weight heavier upon me. He smells of black, spiced tea.

Behind us, the crowd begins to disperse, for which I’m thankful. I’m not sure Lord Holmes can walk just yet, and I’d rather not his grief become a spectacle. Even his older brother turns to leave but not before casting a curious glare at me. I don’t waste my energy on Mycroft. I run my hand up and down Sherlock’s arm and bury my nose in his hair.

“I’ve got you, love.”

He tries to hide that he’s sobbing, but I can feel the way his body shakes. Maybe I was wrong in my earlier assessment: Sherlock Holmes is very good at feeling emotion. Expressing it comfortably is another matter.

*** 

He obviously doesn’t want these people in his home. He doesn’t want the food and drink and low mumbles of politicians, villagers, and lawyers. Sherlock is practically asleep on his feet as he nods his thanks over and over. I stand at his father’s wake and watch from across the room, even though I long to be by his side. I long to hold his hand in mine, but it’s not my place—not yet.

Lestrade sips red wine from a small, crystal cup and lingers as though waiting for me to say something. Finally, I ask, “What?”

“You’re mad,” he says.

“Really?”

“John, you’re practically twice his age.”

“Not quite twice.”

“He’s a child,” my friend says.

“He is anything but.”

Sherlock’s eyes search the room and rest on me. I look back as if to say, _Yes, I am here. I will not leave you. Tell me what you need._ He nods as though he understands and turns his attention back to some man in a green velvet cloak.

“I can’t bloody believe you gave him all that land back for free. I’ve been fighting this for years, you fool.” Lestrade isn’t really angry. I can hear the teasing in his voice. “He’s got you under his thumb and you’re not even married yet.” My friend moves to stand in front of me, blocking Sherlock from view. “Tell me this isn’t all just lust. You’re not acting like a lovesick fool just to get that gorgeous posh thing into bed, are you?”

I roll my eyes. “No.”

Lestrade points his finger at me. “You sure?”

“Yes. It’s … There’s something about him. Like moonlight breaking through clouds. Beautiful but solitary. Untouchable and yet longing to be touched.” I look over Lestrade’s shoulder, and Sherlock is still talking to strangers. He rubs the back of his neck and looks toward the window as though wishing for escape. “I think he’s been alone for too long." 

“His father only just died. And his brother—”

“No, I mean friendship. Connection. Passion. He’s never had any of it, and I want to give him everything he needs before he becomes cold. _Truly_ untouchable.”

Lestrade finishes his wine and shakes his head. “My God, I’ve never seen you like this.”

I chuckle. “That’s because I’ve never been like this. He’s it for me … if he’ll have me.”

“After all you’ve given him, he bloody well better marry you.”

I’m barely hearing my friend anymore because Sherlock has finally somehow escaped the receiving line and now moves stealthily, slowly toward the door—but not before catching my eye. I nod my understanding.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I follow after the delicate creature that tries so hard to seem strong.

I find him in the same room from two nights prior where we sat by the fire as strangers and a half-drunk Lord Holmes showed me his weakness for the first time. A fire rages again today in an effort to fight the English chill, and Sherlock stands, staring into the flames.

I linger by his side.

“You never told me,” he says.

“Told you what?”

“How do you keep going, John, once you’ve lost someone?”

I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “One day at a time.”

His breath trembles. “This day feels very long.”

There is a loveseat back in the shadows, and I guide him to it. I sit and pull him down next to me. I run my fingers through his hair—the first time I’ve done it—and now, _my_ breath trembles. His hair is like silk. I will hopefully touch it every day for the rest of my life. “I was fifteen when I lost my mum. She told me it was okay to miss her but that I needed to keep living. For her. So we live, Sherlock.” 

The fire dances in his eyes. “What is living?”

“Well, it’s admiring the stars at night. Or drinking excellent brandy. Or laughing.” I move my hand down to his cheek and turn his face toward me. “Kissing.” I brush my lips against his. “Feeling emotions, good and bad. Riding a horse at full speed or climbing a tree.” I smile up at his frown. “Living is doing things you love and being with people you love.”

“And you love me?”

“Yes.” I don’t hesitate.

“I make you feel alive?”

“God, yes,” I sigh.

“Kiss me again?”

I wrap my fingers around to the back of his neck and tug him down toward me. Our first two kisses were feather-light touches, but the sweet, quiet way he asked for a third awakens something hungry in me. I press my mouth against his until his lips part, and he groans. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s never been kissed like _this_ before, but the lack of experience is nullified by his enthusiasm. When my tongue touches his, he’s half in my lap. I pull on his shoulders, urge him closer, but he pulls away, panting warm breath against my face.

“Sherlock, God, you are the most … amazing …” I pepper his cheeks with kisses, unable to form a coherent thought.

He presses his forehead against mine, his hands on my chest, but his eyes are squeezed shut.

“Are you all right?”

He shakes his head. “You scare me. Nothing used to scare me.” He pushes away and stands. He chews the bottom lip I sucked not a minute ago. I wonder if he can taste me there. “Is this part of living? Being afraid?”

I nod my head, yes, because in that moment, I feel terribly alive and absolutely frightened he’s going to walk from the room and deny me. I’m horrified of losing him, especially now that I’ve tasted his moan.

He pushes hair off his forehead. “Please, go home, Lord Watson. You’ll have my decision by midnight.”

He leaves me alone, and my throat burns with dread. I thought I could have him, finally, forever. I will forsake my dying mother, stop living, and waste away if he denies me. The sound of his wanting and the feel of soft hair will haunt me forever.

As I prepare to leave and wait for my coach, I hear heavy footsteps behind me—not the lithe, graceful dance of Sherlock’s feet. Mycroft’s voice echoes off the high ceiling of the foyer. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but he won’t fall for it.”

I try to hide that my hands still shake with fear of rejection. “I’m not up to anything. I simply want to call your brother my husband.” 

Mycroft snickers and takes another step forward. He wears a drab suit that struggles to contain his gut. “My brother is frigid, Lord Watson. He is a scientist, not a romantic. He may seem delicate now, but once the grief passes, he will be himself again, and he will hate that you witnessed his weakness.”

I shake my head. “We all have weaknesses.” _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

The elder Holmes’s lip curls. “And the whole village now knows yours. You won’t win this.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“But it is, Lord Watson, a competition between Sherlock’s heart and his mind.” He leans forward with a cheerful sneer. “And you. Will. Lose.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Let's earn that Explicit rating today!

There is no way I will sleep tonight, not until I’ve heard from him, so I sit by the fire and sip brandy. At about ten, a rainstorm arrives. Thunder occasionally shakes the rafters, and my dread grows and grows. I wonder if the young Lord Holmes will even face me himself or if he’ll send some lawyer to reject me. Maybe he’ll even send a smiling Mycroft.

God, I’ve been a fool. What would a brilliant, beautiful creature like Sherlock Holmes want with a middle-aged man like me?

I startle when I hear horse hooves outside. I hurry to my feet and rush to the foyer. Without bothering to wake my servants, I open the heavy front door, and it’s not Mycroft or a nameless legal advisor I see but Sherlock, huffing and puffing, soaked to the bone. 

“Jesus, Sherlock.” I drag him inside by his arm and push the heavy, sodden coat from his shoulders. I don’t give it a second thought when it falls to the floor. I take his hand and pull him into my parlor where a fire roars. I stand him right in front of it before reaching for a blanket. First, I use the fabric to towel off his hair. Then, I wrap it tightly around his shoulders. “Are you mad? You’re going to catch cold.”

He sits on the floor before the fire, and I join him, aging knees be damned.

“What is it, love?” I lean forward and brush wet, black tendrils from his face.

He shivers. “I do remember you. From that Christmas party three years ago.” His pale hands cling to the blanket, probably to keep them from shaking. “You stood in the back corner of my mum’s music room. You wore a brown suit with a blue tie.” He sniffs as the shadows embrace his cheekbones like an old friend. “I felt you watching me. You seemed so confident, assured of your place in the world. I wanted that. I suppose I wanted you—a schoolboy crush—but I tried to forget, because why would a man of such strength and power want a strange, skinny thing like me?”

“Sherlock—”

“I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, John. I never had friends at school. Even Mycroft has made living here feel hateful at times. I’ve never belonged. Until yesterday.”

He looks at me, and I’m still amazing by the weight of such a young gaze. 

He whispers, “I belong in your arms.” 

We lurch forward at the same time, lips meeting in the middle. He must toss the blanket aside, because my hands find the damp shoulders of his suit coat. I shove the offending fabric away, and he lets me. God, he lets me. Mouths kiss and hands reach as the fire burns, the storm rages.

Sherlock leans back long enough to say, “Take me to bed.”

My groan fills the room, but I should slow us down. I must, no matter how much I want him. “Sherlock, we should wait.”

“No.” He leans forward on his knees, hovering over me. “I am half dead. I always have been. Bring me to life, John. Make my heart beat.”

My bedchambers have never felt so far away. Luckily, thanks to my dutiful servants, a fire is already lit. Sherlock’s light eyes take in the room as I unbutton his vest, the fabric drenched and cold. Again, he shivers, so I rush my movements. Last thing he needs is to end up sick.

His bare chest is broad beneath my palms. He is incredibly fit, and I wonder momentarily what he does to build such lean muscle. Then, I move to his trousers. I help him free of his shoes and socks and pull down his pants and undergarments. As I stand back up, I lightly kiss his flat stomach along the way, and he sighs out a breath of air.

I nod toward the bed. “Your skin is still frigid. Get under the covers.”

For a virgin, he’s not timid. I watch him slowly walk to my bed, not even trying to cover his nakedness. I marvel at the muscles of his legs and ass before he disappears beneath multiple layers of soft linen. I stoke the fire and bring it to a full roar in an effort to erase every trace of chill.

I light a lamp by the bed because I don’t want us in the dark. His eyes follow my movements. Then, beneath his scrutiny, I disrobe. I’m not timid either and have no reason to be. I might be shorter than Lord Holmes, but I have more muscle. I might be older, but I’ve never been ashamed of the size of my cock.

I stand by the side of the bed and allow him a short appraisal.

“You have a scar.”

I glance down at my shoulder before sliding under the covers next to him. He shifts on his side and reaches fingers out to touch the dead skin.

“What is it from?”

I slip my hand onto his hip, and my thumb tickles the bottom of his ribcage. “I was shot.”

His hand closes tightly on my shoulder. “When?”

“Oh, when I was about your age. I was in the Army, if only for a moment.”

“I didn’t know that.”

I scoot closer until our knees touch. “Your spies didn’t dig that up?” I plant a kiss to his parted lips.

Eyes closed, he rubs his nose against mine. “No. They also couldn’t tell me why you never married.”

I smile against his mouth. “No one knew about my feelings for you. Not even Lestrade.”

His bottom lip catches against mine as he opens his eyes. “Am I warm enough now?”

I shift my hand to his lower back and pull him closer. “Yes.” 

He kisses me like a starving man eats. I can barely keep up with the way his lips nibble and suck on mine, the way his tongue licks into my mouth. God, he’s brilliant at this already. His hands move to my hair and tug, so I grab his ass and press us together. Sherlock makes a noise like a sob when our cocks touch and moves his mouth away. He ruts against me for a moment, eyes slammed shut, mouth open wide.

I watch him, enamored. “Does that feel good?”

“I think this is what madness must feel like.”

I bite down gently on the side of his neck. “Love, you haven’t felt anything yet.” I kneel across his hips as he pants up at me. I run my hands down his chest. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

His body heaving with breath, he blushes. “No one’s ever …” He looks away.

“They’ve all thought it.” I lean forward and rest my hands on either side of his head. “Marry me, Sherlock. Be my husband.”

My sudden pronouncement brings him back from his pleasure haze. He blinks a couple times while I wait … but then, he nods. “Yes, John.”

I barely suppress an overjoyed giggle, but I do lean down and capture his mouth. I wrap my fingers around those decadent curls and kiss and kiss until he whimpers. I kiss down his chest and over his stomach. When I lick the underside of his cock, he practically knees me in the face. I put my palms on his spread thighs and press down. 

“It’s all right, love.”

“Sorry.” He stares down at me, his hands fisting the sheets.

“Nothing to apologize for.” I kiss the tip of his penis, and his head falls back on the pillows. “Just relax.”

I’m gentle with him. I take him fully in my mouth and move slowly. One of his hands touches the back of my head. I shudder at the thought of teaching those musician’s fingers several new tricks—but there’s no rush. Lord Holmes is to be my husband. We have all the time in the world.

With my mouth on him, I trace my fingers lower between his legs, beneath his balls and lower still. I wonder if he knows what I intend. Sherlock is a scientist, but what does he know about the science of pleasure?

I circle his hole before pressing the tip of my finger inside. He immediately tenses and lifts up onto his elbows, my name on his lips.

“It’s all right, shh,” I whisper. “Do you want me to stop?”

There’s something like panic on his face. I take my hands away and stop touching him, which only seems to make his eyes widen more as he reaches for me. “I’m sorry,” he sputters. “Please, don’t go. I had no idea my body could feel like this, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react, and I told you I will be a terrible husband. I apologize if I’m a disappointment. Please.”

I shake my head. “No, God, no. Sherlock.” I lie down on my side and beckon for him to join me.

His skin already glows, sweat-damp, in the firelight.

“There’s nothing you’re _supposed_ to do. You’re just supposed to let your body feel.”

“I’m afraid of losing control.”

“Don’t be.” I lean forward and kiss him. Will I ever stop wanting to kiss him? “Close your eyes,” I whisper.

“Why?”

“It’ll help you focus on feeling and not reacting. Just _feel_ , love.”

He does as he’s told. I press our foreheads together as my fingers explore his body. I move our hips close, cocks hard but barely touching. I again grasp his ass in my palms and then, press my fingers to his hole. His hands squeeze my shoulders as I press a single digit inside, and he moans out a breath.

“Do you like that?”

He hums. “I don’t know why, but yes.” 

I move my hips in circles against him and press my finger further inside.

His lips part on a loud exhale. “John … John, more …”

I don’t want to break this spell, but I must, out of consideration for my young lover. I kiss his nose. “Don’t move.”

Sherlock’s eyes open, but he doesn’t move. I reach for the table by my bed. In a lower drawer, I keep oil, although I’ve only used it on myself in recent history. Now, I have this heavenly creature in my bed. _Finally._  

I coat my fingers in oil. He studies me curiously but doesn’t ask. I kiss him, push our hips together, and press two fingers into his hole. He pulls out of the kiss, head thrown back, neck extended. I never noticed he has a freckle on the side of his neck, but I lick it now.

“You’re so beautiful like this.” I kiss across his collarbone. “I want you. Let me have you.”

His gaze is practically drunk on the movement of my fingers. “Yes, John, anything.”

I roll him onto his back and kneel between his spread thighs. Sweats drips down the center of his chest, highlighting every straining muscle. I add a third finger, and he barely makes a sound. Just chews his bottom lip and breathes loudly through his nose. “Sherlock?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Sherlock, are you with me?” I pull my fingers from his body, and he—adorably—glares.

“Why did you stop?”

I lean down and kiss his forehead, salty yet sweet. “You’ll tell me if anything’s uncomfortable?”

His brow wrinkles. “All right.”

I hook one of his long legs around my back and stare down at the utter feast before me. For so long, I have thought of nothing but this man. I have wanted and wanted and wanted, and now, he’s mine.

I push into him. He moans as his hands reach up and cling to the headboard. I stop moving. I freeze. He’s so tight and hot, and Christ, I can’t come after one thrust. My young lord has apparently given me my youth back.

“How does that feel?” I ask.

His Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows. “Like I’m alive,” he rumbles.

If I thought hearing his wrecked voice would help me calm down, it has the exact opposite effect. “I’m going to die in your arms.”

He looks up at me. “Not today.”

“No.” I pull back and thrust back in.

“Oh, my God, again,” he begs.

We are soon a litany of cuss words, whispered names, and pleading. I had hoped to be gentle, but gentle apparently is not what Sherlock needs. He spurs me on with shouts of “more, John,” until I’ve thoroughly dismantled any trace of his virginity. Sweat drips into my eyes when he comes, suddenly, with my hand wrapped around his cock. His whole body clenches, eyes squeezed shut.

“Yes, God, you’re perfect.” I kiss him hard, my tongue invading his mouth. I thrust hard into him until he grunts beneath my onslaught, and then, the orgasm hits me with the force of a bullet.

I come back to myself minutes—hours?—later, sprawled across Sherlock’s chest. Rain still falls outside my window, and his arms wrap around me as he kisses my forehead. He kisses, kisses, and whispers my name.

“I’ll always take care of you.” I nuzzle against the side of his neck. 

He whispers, “I know,” before I succumb to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding will be Monday ... Happy weekend, everyone, and thanks for all the support!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter ...

I whistle as I adjust my tie and stare at myself in the full-length mirror of my designated room at the Holmes estate. The wedding is less than an hour away. Sherlock, dear thing, suggested we each choose our own attire, so I went with a gray suit, green tie. My hair is cut short, because he said he likes it that way.

We’ve spent the past month getting to know one another, but I’m finding there will always be more to know about my soon-to-be husband. He is a complicated mixture of feelings and depth—but, luckily, we have many years together now side-by-side in public … and skin-to-skin beneath the privacy of our bedclothes.

I try not to focus too much on the thought of Sherlock’s pale, perfect skin. I know it so well by now, I could draw a map to every freckle, but it is a long day ahead of us before we’ll be alone.

I bid entry to a quiet knock on the door, and Lestrade walks in, closing the door behind him. “Pretty sure the entire village is here, mate, along with half the House of Lords.”

This is no surprise to me.

“I wanted to say congratulations.”

I turn away from the mirror and smile. “Thank you. I’m very lucky.”

“I also wanted to let you know your beautiful betrothed requests your presence.”

I shake my head. “We’re not supposed to see each other before the ceremony.”

Lestrade shrugs. “If there’s one thing I’ve observed about your Lord Holmes, it’s that he always gets his way.” 

I sigh. It’s no use disagreeing. I would give Sherlock anything. I would swim to the bottom of the sea for pearls. I would climb a mountain for a bit of cloud. I follow Lestrade down the hall, in the direction of the grand ballroom where our ceremony is to take place, and my friend points to a closed door. Just in case, I put my hand on the knob to keep Sherlock from pulling it open at the announcement of my presence.

“Love?” I say.

His voice: “John, please come in." 

“It’s bad luck to see you before the ceremony.”

I can practically feel his childish irritation through the hard wood. “That is a stupid assumption with no factual validity.”

I snicker. “Don’t care. I refuse to see you before the ceremony.”

“But, John, I …” He sounds sad.

“Sherlock?”

“I’ll hide behind the mirror.”

I lean my ear against the door. “What?” 

“I’ll hide behind the bloody mirror. There, I’m hidden. Come in, John, please.”

Lestrade chuckles behind me as I enter and close the door once I’m inside. Sherlock chose to get ready in the library for some reason. Maybe the presence of all that knowledge soothes him.

Behind a tall, gilt mirror, I see nothing but his black shoes shining. I stand and face my reflection. “Love, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He sighs. “This is your last chance to back out.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting that. “What are you talking about?”

“Since my father’s funeral, we’ve spent an abundance of time together, so you’ve had the chance to see how awful I can be. You’ll tire of me, I know you will.”

I lean my head against the glass. “We’ve talked about this.”

It’s true, we have, multiple times.

Mycroft had warned me that, when we first met, Sherlock’s mourning made him weak. His grief had softened his rougher edges. That much has proven true. In the weeks after that blessed, beautiful, rainy night, Sherlock has become more _himself_ again. He suffers mood swings and temper tantrums. He can be cruel and then kind. He’s very much like my very own thunderstorm—and I would change none of it because he is never more adorable than when he pouts and never more sensual than when he’s angry. Mycroft assumed these mercurial aspects of my beloved would be a turn off … but Sherlock’s copious emotions only make me want to touch him, kiss him, wreck him.

Yet, there is this insecurity, I assume because he’s never been loved the way I love him. I think his confidence will be a constant work in progress.

“I will never tire of you. Never.” I carefully reach around the mirror and open my fingers. He slips his hand into mine and squeezes. For a man who was never touched until I came along, he loves it. He seems starved for it. Every time we’re near, his hands linger, whether on my shoulder or hip or arm. Sherlock loves touching me, but he loves it more when I touch him—and I do touch him, often. God, do I touch him, until he’s pleading and shouting and … I struggle to subdue those thoughts. After all, I have a wedding to attend.

“Sherlock, I want to marry you. There is no one else. There will never be anyone else. You are everything I want in this world, do you understand?”

He squeezes my hand again.

“Do you still want to marry _me_?” I ask.

“Yes, John, yes. There is no one for me either.”

“How did I get so lucky?”

“You were very patient. Now, close your eyes.”

“Sherlock, you’re not allowed to see me either. It’s—”

“I know, bad luck.” He pauses. “I’ll close my eyes, too. Just …”

I can’t help but grin as I close my eyes. I hear him moving—expensive fabric shifting over his arms and legs. The warmth of his body arrives in front of me, and he presses his lips to mine, a chaste caress. Then, he steps back and lets go of my hand.

“I didn’t peek,” he whispers from his place behind the mirror.

I chuckle. “Have I assuaged your doubts?”

“Yes, John. I’ll see you at the ceremony. You smell wonderful.”

I rest my head against the mirror. “I adore you.”

“I know. Now, get out of here.”

I smile as I walk toward the closed door. I suspect I shall spend the rest of the day smiling.

*** 

When he comes walking down the aisle, I pray to God that I don’t drop dead on the spot. What did I do to deserve this youthful deity of a man? He’s fallen from the pages of mythology, in his dark gray suit and aubergine tie that makes his pale skin glow. His curls have been delicately oiled so they shimmer in the candlelight, and his lips resemble rose petals, damp with winter dew.

I think I stop breathing, because Lestrade, my best man, pats me on the shoulder, and I gasp for air. 

Sherlock doesn’t have a best man. He could have asked Mycroft, but I have a feeling the elder Holmes brother is thoroughly displeased with our match—possibly because he’d hoped to hold some power over his little brother. As if anyone could make Sherlock do something he did not want to do. Even I sometimes feel out of my depths with my young love as if he is older and wiser, while I am a bumbling novice. Other times, he hides his face in my neck as though I am all he has to protect him from the wide, wicked world. We are a balancing act of power.

No one walks him down the aisle. His parents are dead, after all, but I think, too, that Sherlock enjoyed the idea of having one last moment as his own person, alone, before we merged to become one.

When he nears, I hold my hand out, and he takes it. I can’t help myself. I kiss his cheek, tell him how beautiful he looks, and he returns the compliment. I’ve never been called beautiful before, but I can see it in Sherlock’s eyes: he means it.

I barely hear the vicar, so enthralled am I with staring at my fiancé. When Sherlock notices my continued scrutiny, he blushes. He smiles and nods toward the man of God, so I smile back and at least pretend to listen.

The service flows along, slow and steady. We didn’t want anything fancy—no music or flowery vows. I’m a little disappointed Sherlock doesn’t play his violin, but I know he abhors performance. His violin is a private thing but one I hope he’ll eventually share with me.

When the ceremony comes to a close, I lean up on my toes and kiss my new husband on the lips. He smiles against my mouth before pulling away, sheepish. Public affection—kissing, at least—might never be part of our marriage, which is fine. I prefer having Sherlock all to myself, and despite his fiery temperament, my new husband is actually shy.

He says, quietly, “I wish my parents could see.”

I kiss him again. “They can, love.”

He nods. 

I’d like to drag him away, have him just to myself, but we must first face a receiving line and grand dinner. We stand shoulder to shoulder and accept blessings from the villagers and society members of London.

Mycroft makes a show of stopping and staring at us both. His grimace is practically comical. 

Sherlock extends his hand to shake. “Don’t look so disappointed, brother mine. I’m sure you’ll find your own true love someday.”

My heart swells at his words. I’m still shocked at the confidence he has in me—in us.

From what I’ve been told, Mycroft pitched a fit the morning Sherlock returned from our first night together at my estate, because of course, my love stayed over, wrapped in my arms as he slept. I didn’t get to see Mycroft’s wrath, but I guess he threw words like daggers: _propriety, responsibility, stupidity_ —that last, used to describe Sherlock for giving himself to me so easily.

I don’t think there was anything easy about it.

Today, Mycroft ignores his brother’s pithy remark and leans down toward me. “You will be good to him.”

I’m surprised at this sudden show of concern, but I nod and clasp Mycroft’s hand in mine. “You warned me that your brother’s mind and heart were at war and that his mind would win. Just so you know, I don’t think the two are separate entities where Sherlock is concerned. His stunning mind would be nothing without his heart.” 

He pulls away, and a wrinkle of confusion mars his forehead. He leaves without further comment but does glance at his brother with a sort of fond understanding. I don’t suppose we’ll have any trouble from Mycroft in the future.

It’s Sherlock who eventually announces we must depart because he “wants to make love to his husband.” There are scoffs and frowns, but I can’t stop smiling as I realize more and more that this is who he is: a young man who cares not for _propriety_ or the opinion of the masses. He is an untamed masterpiece of intellect and wild beauty, and I am the luckiest man alive.

*** 

He hums, my cock deep down his throat. “Sher—oh, God, oh …” His tongue caresses me. I taught him how to do this a week ago, and he’s a master already. When my husband sets his mind to something, he evidently seeks highest marks.

I curl one of my hands in his hair. The other squeezes his left shoulder, warm and damp from exertion. I watch him pleasure me. I hope I’m not dreaming, but how else can I explain this utter fantasy come true? How else can I explain getting everything I’d ever hoped for, along with facing the prospect of a happily-ever-after with this incredible prince among men?

My mind derails when he takes me deeper, deeper, and works the muscles of his throat against my cock. “Jesus, Sherlock …” I breathe toward the ceiling.

He pulls his mouth away and sits up on his knees. “That’s Lord Watson-Holmes, if you don’t mind.” Of course we combined our names. Of course.

He straddles my hips and reaches for the oil on the side table. He slicks me up, and before I even realize what he’s about to do, he sinks down onto me—tight and hot and _oh, god_ …

“My love,” I murmur. “My love, my love, my love.”

This is his preferred way to fuck: on top of me, controlling things. The first night I touched his naked skin, he admitted he didn’t like feeling out of control. I think this is his way of regaining it, although he’s soon lost to sensation, hands planted firmly on my chest as he swirls his thin hips and thrusts. He is a wave of lean muscle—and I now know why.

He follows an exercise regiment. Does something called baritsu. I saw him practicing one morning when I arrived earlier than usual at the Holmes estate. He looked like a dancer, the way he moved with grace and balance but brutality, too. He seemed embarrassed when he realized I’d been watching. He turned an endearing shade of pink, in fact, wiping sweat from his forehead.

I kissed his discomfort away that morning, and he has since promised to teach me some of his strange sport in the weeks and months ahead. I expect we have much to learn from each other.

The way his hips move against me …

The way his rainbow eyes squeeze shut …

The way that rose petal mouth falls open, silent …

Sherlock takes himself in hand while riding me, and he comes after two strokes with my name on his lips.

His muscles clench, and I join him in pleasure, vision gone white as my fingers dig into his hips and probably leave bruises. Sherlock’s skin bruises quite easily actually. Last week, he carried the shape of my mouth on the side of his neck like a trophy.

I expect he’ll want to sleep after the enthusiasm of our lovemaking, but, instead, he kisses my nose and slides from my lap. I watch him clean himself with one of our discarded shirts before he pulls on a pair of breeches.

I lean up in bed. “Love?”

“I have a gift for you.”

I sigh, trying to make sense of his words when all the blood in my body is still sincerely south. “We said no gifts.”

“Well.” He reaches under the bed and pulls out his violin case.

“How long has that been hidden there?”

He smirks up at me. “Only today.” He pulls out his prized instrument and plucks a few of the strings with callused fingers. I didn’t know he had callused fingers until I sucked them into my mouth two weeks ago.

My Sherlock stands at the foot of our bed and clears his throat as though about to sing. “It’s nothing much,” he says. “But I thought …” He taps the bow against his thigh. “I love music. The way it makes me feel. And I love you. You make me feel like music. If I was a romantic, I’d say you’ve made my life like a song.”

I smile because he _is_ a romantic. God, is he ever. I wonder if he’ll ever admit it.

He takes a long, slow breath and starts to play. The song is light and dark, fast and slow. It dances and soars and then turns languid, reminiscent of Sherlock’s hips when we share tender, morning pleasure. The song is us: different nuances that, when played together, create a breathtaking tune.

And he wrote this song for me.

Three years ago, I fell in love with a young musician’s hands. I quickly appreciated the rest of him, too, but it was only recently that I discovered Sherlock Holmes is much more than divine aesthetics and poise. He is a man with a heart that requires careful attention, and I will cherish that heart ‘til death do us part.

He’s awkward when he finishes the song as though unsure of its brilliance.

“Why are you crying?” he asks when he looks up at me.

I wipe at my eyes. “I’m not.”

“John?” He sets the violin and bow on a nearby table and hurries back to bed.

I pull him to me with a hand on the back of his neck and kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead. “My whole life, I was just waiting for you.”

He shrugs. “You’re done waiting now.”

I nod and struggle to calm myself. He’s wise for someone so young.

He shifts and leans his body against mine until we’re both cuddled into bed, Sherlock sprawled across me. “Life starts again tomorrow,” he says.

I comb my fingers through his hair and hum agreement. 

“You’ll like Cambridge.”

“I’ll like anywhere you are.” 

We won’t be living a life of geographical permanence anytime soon. School starts again in a week for my Lord Holmes, and I’ve rented us a small but beautiful house near campus for the duration. I will have to travel much between Cambridge and London, while Lestrade tends to my— _our_ —lordship duties.

Sherlock’s education is important to me, though. I won’t have him quit on account of my absence, and he’s said as much: now that I’m in his life, he can’t imagine being away from me for long. The thought of not sleeping next to him actually gives me chills. 

He runs his hand across my chest. “You won’t let me forget.”

Forget what, I wonder? His father’s death? The loss of his mother? The way I love him? Because, oh, do I love him.

“You won’t let me forget to live,” he whispers.

I smile into his hair. “No. No, my beloved husband. You will never again forget to live—and you will never, ever forget you are loved.” 

He snuggles closer until his warm, sleeping breath tickles my ear, and I think, _Yes, this is what it feels like to be truly happy. This is what it feels like to be truly alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented! I had fun exploring the boys under these very different circumstances. Stay in touch! Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)!


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